


GISHWHES Me in the Morning

by thursdaysisters



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: GISHWHES, Gen, Misha Collins - Freeform, Queen Elizabeth II - Freeform, crackfic, quickreaver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:30:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thursdaysisters/pseuds/thursdaysisters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After GISHWHES, four of us decided to write a series of short, short romance stories about Misha and the Queen of England.  Inspired by the art of quickreaver.  Guaranteed nothing but straight up comic crackiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	GISHWHES Me in the Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quickreaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickreaver/gifts).



**“Misha and the Queen commission naked statues of themselves”**

The Queen unfurled the parchment and cleared her throat. "By royal decree, all citizens now have the right of Nocte Caelata," she said, gazing fondly at a statue of Antonin Scalia in brazilian ruffle pants, "Any sculpture erected by cover of night is permitted."

Later she and Misha strolled thru the garden maze by moonlight, passing art students who were furiously chipping at a pink marble statue of Misha, stripped to the waist with a wicked smile and a mermaid tail.

"I like this one," said Misha, pointing to a statue of the Queen in nude repose, "But don't you have two others like this?"

"Oh darling," she said, stroking his cheek, "A girl can't have TOO many naked statues of herself."

==================  


**“Misha and the Queen convince Nixon that sequins are the way to go”**

"Misha," Rachel Nyburg whispered into the com, crawling across the ISS' outer surface in her gravity boots, "Nixon's ghost haunts the dark side of the moon and threatens to doom us all. You must burn his bones."

Misha cracked his knuckles. "That won't be necessary."

Hearing a knock at his bomb shelter door, Nixon arose. "Who goes there?"

Misha waltzed in, tutting at the decor. "Mister President, have you ever considered re-tiling your bathroom?" he said, as the Queen measured Nixon's shoulders, "Nothing sets off your jowls in the morning like pink tile."

"Insolent communists!" he barked, as a team of ghost designers began retrofitting his kitchen in hammered silver, "And put my oven back, harvest gold is TOTALLY in this year!"

"Hold out your arms," said the Queen, as his old suit was removed and another put on, "Definitely yes on the sequins."

"Excellent!" said Misha, holding up a full-length mirror, "What do you think?"

Nixon stared. He now wore a rainbow unitard beneath a white sequined jacket, with a high warlock collar and a plunging neckline that just cleared his naval. Pink highlights shimmered in his hair, and when he looked down he found chunky rings had been slipped onto each finger. He smelled like Elton John's armpit.

"I'm..." he said, tears pricking his eyes as his revenant began to fade, "I'm beautiful."

===============================

**“Misha and the Queen attend a monster truck rally.”**

The dome held ninety thousand people, klieg lights blinding the truck drivers in the pavilion below. Jets of flame erupted from the stage as the emcee took the mic, and he raised his hand for silence. 

"Before we begin, I would ask Mister Collins to give the benediction. Please rise."

The Queen squeezed Misha's hand, the spotlight falling on him like God pointing a finger. He studied her face, slow eyes tracing the curves of her royal jumpsuit, and her loins throbbed in time with the crowd as they chanted his name.

The mob parted as if for some great prophet, while the two drivers waited on either end of the stage, dressed only in boots and leopard print bikinis. They snapped out a nervous salute, and as he took the mic they bowed their heads, the arena silent save for the hum of the lights. 

Misha clasped his hands in prayer. "Oh Lord," he began, "Please keep Thundertits and Princess Playtex in your loving embrace, that they should avoid injury."

A hopeful smile played on Princess Playtex’s lips. But Misha’s eyes flicked over to the Queen, and his heart swelled with love.

"And please Lord, teach your children propriety," he said, removing his coat and draping it over the nearest driver, "For My Lady is here with me tonight, and the tacit objectification of women in sporting events is SO not cool. Amen."

“Amen.” echoed the crowd, and Misha rushed up the aisle to sweep the Queen into his arms.

The emcee regained the mic and shouted, “Let’s get ready to rummmmmble!”

===================  
 **“Misha and the Queen fight Napoleon”**

Plumes of black smoke curled from the Louvre. Great Cyberdactyls sailed through the air, plucking the heads off unwary mimes in a spray of red. The Queen lifted a beret from the ground and bunched it tight, blood weeping between the cracks of her fingers.

"Napoleon," she hissed, drawing the .45 from her waistband, "I have you now."

"No," said Misha, clutching her wrist, "Violence is not the way."

Later that evening, they lay in an opium den, riding the dreamscape on a tandem bicycle until they found Napoleon's Mind Palace. Napoleon sat on his iron throne, tucking into a cake shaped like Alexander I.

"How shall we defeat him, my love?"

A toy smile played at the corner of Misha's mouth. "We're gonna hug him," he said, a wicked gleam in his eye, "We're gonna hug the CRAP out of him. Allons-y!"

He clapped his hands, and the Internet came to his aid. "Tumblr!" he commanded in a warm, rolling baritone, "I need your hugs. ALL OF THEM."

“My God!” exclaimed the Queen. “The Cyberdactyls are falling! They’re all just...falling out of the sky. But why?”

“Seven billion odd people. Hugging.” 

He smiled over his shoulder, then saw her confusion.

“The endorphin rush created an interplanetary resonance field that temporarily over-rode the natural electro-magnetics of the planet. Never underestimate the power of human touch, El,” he said, lifting her chin with his finger, “You are the only species worth touching.”

Napolean clutched fearfully at the Cyberdactyl that had carried him to the safety of La Tour Eiffel. He shook his tiny fist. “I’ll get you Misha Collins!” he cried, as a wave of anti-hugging matter, the reification of one planet overcoming it’s fear of intimacy among strangers, rose to pull him through the very stones of the earth, “I’ll get you ONE DAY!”

=======================  
 **“Misha and the Queen go to the year 2350 to fight the rubbery monster Zolrath”**

The earth gave a terrible shudder, and skyscrapers swayed as the asphalt split in a drunken zig-zag. A Japanese schoolgirl pointed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “But but...the monster ROVES the little childlen!”

“Stand back!” said the Queen, unsheathing her electric guitar, “This could get dangerous.”

She ripped off her bonnet, and beneath the ribbons and bows was a green mohawk and a tattoo reading GOD SAVE THE QUEEN. Biceps flexing like beefy grapefruits, her flower-print dress burst at the seams and fluttered to the ground, leaving her naked save for a loincloth and Misha’s promise ring. She raised her arm and windmilled a chord of ages that stopped the monster in it’s tracks.

“Misha,” she said, throwing him a smoldering glance, “Turn it up... to eleven.”

He nodded. His guitar pick had been carved from the jawbone of the only White House President who had ever truly loved him, and falling to one knee they laid into a rock ballad so epic, so sad, so TRUE, the monster shielded his eyes and fled for the Pacific. 

All of Tokyo rejoiced, and the people joined hands as the music rang through the streets, rainbows connecting the tops of their heads beneath a mouthless Hello Kitty sun and showers of Pocky.

===========================  
 **“Misha vs. the planet of Jane Austen clones”**

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a planet must be in want of a clone army.

Eliza Bennet surveyed her prisoners, and pointed at the Queen. "Gift me Misha and I shall release you," she said, eyes glittering, "He will make a welcome addition to the seraglio."

"Never!" the Queen cried, chains rattling about her wrists. A thousand Eliza Bennets in ringmail laughed at her plight.

"Wait," said Misha gently, "I will go freely. Only don't harm her."

Eliza lowered her hand and sneered. "Approach the throne, puny human."

Misha wet his lips, knowing he must draw from his many years of seduction at the University of Chicago.

He placed his hands on either side of her chair, his breath hot on her mouth. "Didn't I hear you present at the ACS Gender Studies conference last year?"

She blushed. "I...I..."

"You were amazing," he whispered, "Your analysis of how property taxes affect public education and the side effects on third-wave feminist working mothers was...mouth-watering."

Her mouth fell open another inch. "I...thank you. Before the planetary invasion I...HAD been considering a degree in urban planning..." 

And so the Jane Austen clone army was peacefully dispersed throughout the galaxy, enlisted at small community colleges to teach Queer Theory and spend their weekends as volunteer firefighters.  
========================

**“Misha and the Queen start their own country”**

 

"Welcome to Mishlandia," said the Queen, as beautiful men blew kisses to the crowd, "Every citizen will be given a passport and a free-trade diamond collar for their pug. No smoking, no pinching, and sangria's by the pool."

A few feet away, Vladimir Putin sat handcuffed to the small platform of a dunking booth. 

“Wait! I don’t mind so much the women gays. Is cute almost, no? I could watch again.”

“Too late tovarisch, you’re goin’ down!” said the Queen, pointing to a lackey, “Silence him.”

“Just you wait!” he snarled, as the ball-gag was pulled over his head, “Bitches will love me when they come crawling with their energy crisis!”

Her Majesty wound up the pitch and hit the bullseye on the first try, sending the Beloved Leader into a slurry of rotten eggs. 

“Wow,” said Jensen, “Your girlfriend’s really something.”

Misha smiled. “Yes, well, when you’re running an anarcho-syndicate you have to get by on force of personality.”

He lifted a mallet, striking the brass gong atop his parade float. "Let the 2013 Free Love Olympics...BEGIN."  
===============

**"Misha and the Queen smoke a fat J"**

Misha and the Queen wandered down the frozen food aisle arm-in-arm, trying to decide between fudgesicles or hitting up the Super Bombay Bazaar for mango lassi. 

"What are you singing?" asked the Queen, her cheek warm on his shoulder.

He pointed to the ceiling speakers. "They're playing 'White Rabbit'," he said, drawing M+E in the freezer condensation, "I haven't heard this song in ages."

Her brow furrowed. Beer bottles rattled to the bass notes of Whoomp (There It Is!). "I don't think that's it."

He smiled and pulled her into his arms. "All music sounds like Jefferson Airplane when you're in love."

==========

**“Misha and the Queen write an opera about two demon-hunting brothers called "Drivin' and Cryin'"”**

The Queen filled in the remaining bar and blew across the ink. Across the room, Misha hummed the overture, experimenting with the ripe chromaticism of the Wagnerian School, and imagined opening night. A black-out show, thunderous applause that cracked the plaster; women fainting, the New York Times critic rushing to the phone to beg his mother’s forgiveness. 

“All we need now are the male principals,” said the Queen, “The baritone must be strong. Bold. An Übermensch. And the tenor must be as tender as a woman’s breast, with the face of a Botticelli and the six-pack of longshoreman.”

Misha rested a hand on her shoulder. The Impala brothers swam in his memory, their lantern jaws, hair-capes flowing in the wind like bat wings. “I know just the boys.” 

He whipped out his phone and began texting. Jared and Jensen were bitch queens offstage, but hand them a score and the panties wouldn’t fly off fast enough. “Yo sup. Need tenor and baritone in acting age 25-30. Standard AFM wage, must pay for own parking and be able to cry when punched.” 

Misha and the Queen stepped from their limo beneath a flashing marquee. They could see tomorrow’s headline. “DRIVIN’ AND CRYIN’” A SMASHING SUCCESS: OPERA HOUSE EVACUATED FROM EXTREME FEELS.” The lights dimmed, the curtain lifted, and a terrible heartache swelled in the audience as the orchestra opened with Dean’s Bedside Monologue.

The headlines compared it to Les Mis. The critic called it a watershed event in modern composition, combining the broad palette of Stravinsky with the subtle nuance of Pete Townshend. Not since Grenouille waved a perfumed hanky at the French guillotine crowd had such passion been wrung from so many. The Queen wiped a tear from Mayor Bloomberg’s cheek, who kissed her and declared that, truly, she and Misha were a credit to their race.

In wasn’t until they stepped outside that the mob formed. A forest of pitchforks glittered in the torchlight, white-knuckled men and women climbing over taxis and smug cyclists to jab the composers westward “to Camden where you belong”. Still, as they ran toward the Lincoln Tunnel, Misha laughed over his shoulder and pulled the Queen along, gripping her tight until they rounded a corner and disappeared.  
===========  
 **“Misha and the Queen entertain a dialysis patient”**

The dialysis patient looked up. "I'm so sorry, sir," said Doctor Misha, hugging his clipboard, "I'm afraid you've contracted an acute case of Ass in Your Pants."

The man blinked. "Excuse me?"

"We're going to have to begin treatment right away," said Dr. Misha, placing a kazoo between the man's lips, "Now, deep breath and...EXHALE."

He whistled thru the toy, and a giant disco ball descended from the ceiling. Foxy nurses descended from water slides, firing a fuselage of skittles and glitter from their pink rocket launchers, while the Queen slid behind two turntables.

Dr. Misha pointed to her. "Drop a sick beat."

The room throbbed, red lights tattooing the patient’s smiling face as his machine beeped in time with the music. And joining the nurses Dr. Misha kicked up his heels and lead everyone in a booty-riffic chorus line.  
=================================  
 **“Misha and the Queen terraform Mars”**

Misha and the Queen clasped hands, gazing at the dead heart of space through the ISS observatory. "Let's do this," said Misha, throwing the lever, "Let's heal Mars."

Down on Earth, stargazers turned to watch the red sattelite turn green, pulsing with eldritch light as mountains erupted and coagulated into new ecospheres. Jensen Ackles stood beside the window, edged in the sulphurous haze of the terraforming engines, and began to sing.

"Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high..."

The hatch opened on Olympus Mons, and Misha breathed in cool air, cherry blossoms floating over an ocean of wheatgrass. He turned to his Queen.

"Our job is done,” he said, touching her cheek, “Let’s go home.”

And pressing their rings together, they transformed into a beautiful butterfly and vanished with the last stars of morning.  
======================  
 **"Misha and the Queen make Kansas awesome"**

The newswoman straightened her hair and stood by the sign reading, "WELCOME TO KANSAS, DON'T FALL ASLEEP".

"Good morning, I'm reporting from Crawford County, where locals appear to be suffering from chronic personal fulfillment and a delicious breakfast."

"It happened so fast," said the farmer, idly munching beside his new set of waffle trees, "One second this handsome man was blessing my crops, and the next I had this sense of my relationship with the universe, that if we slowed our perception of time we would see each moment framed against the beauty of creation like a perfect snowflake." 

"Fascinating," said the newswoman, nibbling at some bacon grass, "And the man's whereabouts?"

"Oh he and the Queen are at the bubble tea springs," he said, pointing to a line of people in baptismal whites, "Better queue up if you wanna be dunked today."

=======================  
 **“Misha and the Queen are buried alive, written in the style of P.G. Wodehouse”**

"I say, Collins," said the Queen, poking the underside of the coffin lid, "If this isn't the rummiest pickle we've found ourselves in."

"Most distressing, madame."

“You want my opinion of Mister Padalecki? Well, do you?”

“I’m burning with curiosity.”

"That Padalecki's a bad egg!” she said, and she meant it to sting, “I mean to say, he's dropped us in the soup, shunting us in this ol' boneyard, what?”

"I dare not speculate, madame."

“And mere minutes before my dinner engagement at the Car Prom!" 

“If I may take the liberty, some things are best appreciated from a distance.”

The Queen sighed. "Just as well I didn't attend I suppose, spares me the trouble of finding a bally dress to wear."

"Indeed, madame. Had I known we would be in this delicate position, I would not have taken your black Chanel out for alterations."


End file.
